Prodigal
by Fyrie
Summary: August W. Booth is a writer. But he's also a lot more than that.


There's a curse to immortality, as well as a blessing.

August W. Booth has the face of a young man, but there's much more behind it, more than anyone could possibly guess. He's been a young man for many a year, and that's why he could never stay in one place for more than a couple of years here or there.

It's a lonely road, but he knows one day, it'll be worth it.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who had a father he loved very much. Everyone called his father names and hurt him, and the boy knew his father was afraid, but that didn't matter as long as they had each other. Even when his father made terrible, terrible mistakes, the boy still loved him, but love can only take you so far before it begins to hurt too much. One day, the boy could no longer see his father in the man he had become, and that was when he was cursed. Or blessed.

August W. Booth is a patient man.

He's also exceptional in many ways. He writes, which is nothing special, but what he writes is truth, undiluted and focussed. No one will ever read what he writes, not until the right person, in the right place, at the right time, but he writes so that he doesn't forget.

The truth of his book has been forgotten, a long time ago, by almost everyone involved.

He knows it's important that he doesn't forget.

Once upon a time, a young man, barely more than a boy, sought out help from the purest of magical folk. He would have done anything to save the man who once was his father, but his father would have none of it, too afraid of being weak again to be strong enough to accept help. And so, they were parted, on terms terrible and painful, and the boy made a wish to one day be able to help his father, no matter how long it took.

It has been a long time.

August remembers a time when he lived in a world of magic and dreams and happily ever afters, but he knows he could never have one for himself, not until the time was right. He remembers when the world changed and suddenly, it was a world of machines, gritty reality and nothing could be fixed with the wave of a wand.

He knows one day the old world will come back, but until then, he soldiers through the new one, a warrior of fortune, learning the stories of this world as well as he knew the stories of that world.

When the world turned, he was a man of few skills, but a man who appears young can always learn a trade, and he's been young for a very long time. He has travelled every corner of the world, into the highest mountains, into the lowest valleys. He's always known the secret of the universe: that the universe is just a story waiting to happen. Good or bad, it's always about the story.

The only thing constant in his life, ever since his first months in the new world, is his writing device. It's outdated, ancient by the modern standards. He could have replaced it, bought one of those new-fangled portable machines, but he likes it. The smell of the ink and the rattle and clack of the keys makes it feel more real than a flashy flat screen.

His bike is a close second, and he knows that when the world is set to turn back, he will be holding onto it like it's his baby. There's no way he can go back to horseback after feeling the power of a Harley.

He knows the Blue fairy would shake her head over it, but he's never had something he really wanted for himself. Even his one real wish was for his papa.

It's not the same bike as it's always been. Over the years, almost every part has been replaced at some time or another, but it doesn't make it any less his. He even learned metalsmithing, so when the time comes, he can fix it with his own fair hands.

Gas is something he's trying not to think about, but if everything goes right, he doesn't see why he couldn't get the fairies to rustle up some kind of magic equivalent. It would be pretty awesome to own the first magic-powered hog in existence. And eco-friendly too.

He's not a hippie. Not really. He's not really any kind of anything but himself. But he appreciates the Enchanted forest more now that he's seen what technology and modernity can do to a world. Nepal became his favourite place a long time ago: it's the closest thing he ever found to home, and for a couple of years, he just hung out with the herders of the mountains, remembering how to spin and weave and be who he once was.

There's still something about the smell of a shepherd's hut. It hurts like hell to be there, remembering that place a long time ago, somewhere he can never get back to, even when all is said and done. The smell of the sheep's wool, the tallow, the scent of lamps burning into the night. That's home. That's the home that was destroyed the minute his father made the biggest mistake of his life.

August - Baelfire - doesn't blame him.

For a while, he almost did. He almost hated the man his father had become. He was cruel and dangerous and violent, and yet, when he looked at Baelfire, the child, there was still enough of the loving father that Baelfire wanted to save him.

He can't remember the last time he saw Rumpelstiltskin. Or Gold, as he is now called. There are glimpses, in Storybrooke. It's why he doesn't visit as often as he should. The man doesn't look like the monster anymore, but August knows the curse is still in place, and Gold isn't his father again. Not yet.

All the same, times are changing.

His book is on its way to the right person. It isn't a warrior or a hero. It's a kid, just like he was when he made his wish. That's the kid who will save the day. All he has to do is believe in once upon a time.


End file.
